


Hope and a Picture

by mggislife2789



Category: Criminal Minds, Spencer Reid - Fandom
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Reader Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mggislife2789/pseuds/mggislife2789
Summary: Can Spencer truly feel the presence of his late wife coaxing him out of the darkness?Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or their original stories. This is only for fun. It's where my brain goes after the credits roll. No copyright intended. Better safe than sorry. ;)





	

He heard the wisp of her voice...”Spencer.”

That’s what sent him spiraling down the drain.

\----------------------------

He’d never see her again. He was here; she wasn’t. And yet here he was, two months later, back on a case, while her killer still roamed the streets. He’d gotten away and taken Spencer’s heart with him.

“I’m done,” he said flatly, walking into his boss’ office from the conference room.

Hotch’s head shot up from his desk. “What do you mean, Reid?”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He wouldn’t tell anyone. But he would have revenge no matter how long it took him. “I mean exactly what I just said Hotch. I’m done. I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Listen...” Hotch started, “I know you’re still reeling over Y/N, but...”

“But nothing, Hotch.” The heat rose, threatening to pour out of him faster than it ever had before. “This job took away both of the women I’ve loved. First Maeve, then Y/N. I did love this job, but I can’t handle it taking away the best parts of me. I don’t know what I’m going to do. But it isn’t this.” His voice cracked, “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, he turned on his heels, leaving the BAU, his job for the last decade, and the people that loved him the most, behind.

\--------------------------

“Fuck!” he snarled, hurling his half-drunk coffee cup across the room.

It had been two months since he left the BAU and he’d lost his second lead on Y/N’s killer. It was much harder to research without the rest of the team. He didn’t want to raise any alarms. “Dammit!”

He stomped around the room, picking up and throwing anything that wasn’t nailed down. After a nearly 15-minute rage, his dingy motel room looked like it had been hit by a tornado. The chair was splintered into countless pieces: the sheets torn: the walls covered in water and coffee: the shower curtain pulled from the ceiling: and the mirror shattered into innumerable shards.

As he looked at his face reflected back at him, he recognized the look. It was the same look he had when he was in the throes of his drug addiction.

He reached into his pocket, feeling for the bottles of dilauded he had been carrying for months. His love for Y/N, and knowing she wouldn’t want him going back to that life, had kept him from shooting up again. But tonight it was just too much. 

Numb. That’s all he was. He ripped off his shirt, turned to the bed and brought out the bottle. Leaving it on the table, he decided to try and resist the urge again, but as turned his head away, looking for something else to focus on, a glimpse of Y/N flashed into his mind. Her smile could light up a room on the darkest of days. Her energy excited those around her; it was infectious. The image of her sleek, brown hair and shining blue eyes was too much for him to overcome. He had to see her again. The first time he’d been injected with the drug, he saw images of his mother. Maybe he would see Y/N tonight. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he breathed to the open, demolished room, “I’m so sorry.”

\-------------------------

It had been four months since her death, but she was still floating here. She didn’t know what her purpose here was.

Until tonight.

She felt a tug at her incorporeal self towards a town she didn’t recognize. When she arrived, she saw a grimy hotel bathroom in tatters. It looked like one of Spencer’s crime scenes. Was she supposed to help solve a case before she could move on? Slowly, she glided into the next room to see him. Her Spencer. He was propped up on the bed, hair disheveled, clothes stained and in and out of consciousness. Hanging from his arm was a needle - and the bottle on the table confirmed her worst fear. He was using again. If she had been able to cry in her form, she would have. All she felt now was an unending cold, like nothing would ever feel happy again. 

She continued looking around the room, trying to find anything that might help her get through to her husband. She loved him more than words could even begin to describe - and seeing him in this way broke her spirit. On the desk was paperwork regarding her killer. He was out for revenge. She couldn’t let him do this - it would ruin his life and it wouldn’t bring her back to him.

She drifted toward him once more, reaching her ethereal hand to his face, gently grazing it. 

His eyes fluttered open at her touch.

She couldn’t be here, could she? It must’ve been a drug-induced dream.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “is that you? How are you here?”

Her airy voice soothed him in a way he hadn’t experienced since her death. “Baby, I never left. I’ll always be with you.” Her hand had drifted over his heart.

“But I’m here and you’re not,” he lamented, his head lolling to one side- the drug still coursing through his veins. “I’m so sorry,” he moaned, “I should’ve protected you. It should have been me.”

She grasped his face in what small way she could, ensuring he could see her. “It was not your fault. It was his. But you can’t spend your life trying to avenge my death.”

He picked his head up, reaching out his hand for her. “Why not? I have nothing left here.”

“You’re wrong,” she weeped, resting her head against his. “You have family that love you. Garcia is worrying herself sick over your whereabouts. JJ can’t explain to Henry why his Uncle Spencer isn’t there. Michael won’t even know who you are. Hotch and Rossi are on the lookout for signs of you. Your namesake, Morgan’s son - you need to be there for him. When Hotch called Emily to tell her you’d left the team, she spent the night drinking. Baby, if you go after this man, you’re going to lose everything and everyone else you love. Please...”

A warm tear formed at the corner of his eye, falling onto Y/N’s intangible hand - but she’d felt it. “I love you, Spence. Please...go home.”

“Will you stay?” he sobbed. “Until I fall asleep?”

She propped herself as best she could by his side. “Of course,” she whispered, “and forever more. I’ll always be here for you.”

He had no idea what was real, but as the last words fell from her lips, he drifted off to the deepest sleep he had had in months.

\--------------------------

The next morning felt different. Although the room was still a mess, a sense of calm had washed over it. Had she really been here? Had they really spoken? He figured it was all a dream created by the dilauded, but the skin on his chest and face felt warmer than the rest of him, like she’d left a piece of herself behind. 

He stood up from the bed and grabbed the remaining drugs, heading to the bathroom. “No more, I promise,” he said to no one, pouring the remainder down the drain. As he turned to leave, pack and head home to whoever would have him back, he saw it. It was the only proof he needed that she had really been there. 

A picture was there, where it hadn’t been the night before. It was one they took at the pumpkin farm from when they first started dating. She was wearing his slouchy hat and sweatshirt, having forgotten her own clothes at her apartment. Her arms were squeezed tightly around his frame, while he reached his arm out to take a picture. It was his favorite picture together - and it smelled of her perfume.  
Hours later, he left the motel room behind, with nothing but hope and picture driving him home.


End file.
